


The White Dress

by thelongcon (rainer76)



Category: Walking Dead (TV)
Genre: Character Study, Episode Tag, F/M, Season 3, Snippet
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-06
Updated: 2014-06-06
Packaged: 2018-02-03 14:57:32
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 303
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1748678
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rainer76/pseuds/thelongcon





	The White Dress

The first time Lori appears to Rick she’s wearing white - it’s part wedding dress, part negligee - it hugs the contours of her bottom, clings tight as a glove to her thighs, its sexualised and pure, the type of attire only a husband would see. The back is cut low, revealing the delicate knobs of her spine, the flare of her ribs, the weight she had lost before pregnancy rounded her frame.

 

Lori’s not there, Rick knows, but he can’t stop searching the dark corners of the prison, looking for her apparition. She appears as a shining virtue, a blazing sword of everything women are supposed to represent – beautiful and untouchable, her skin clean – she appears to Rick as a taunt (or is that a haunt?) of everything he had wanted from her; perfection like a mirage in desert heat.  It’s no wonder the madness kicks in when he’s confronted by her vision; how Rick rattles the bars of the cells with his shout – but she’s untouchable, ephemeral as a ghost - ideals are steadfast, immutable, they’re not permitted to grow, the arc of _redemption_ is below their standards.

 

She floats along in her white dress, in the fields, beyond the gates; her hands skim along the tall blade-tips of grass, bending them, like the gentle kiss of wind.

 

The last time Rick sees Lori, she stands in a flannel shirt, dirty jeans, her belly is rounded with pregnancy in the late afternoon sun.  There’s dirt on her cheeks, freckles on her face, not a scrap of white clothing anywhere. She’s as human as Rick is – is permitted the same mistakes, the same human errors, the same arc of forgiveness. There’s dirt under her nails, a flash of sunlight in her eyes, and her expression is wistful...that this understanding is granted only in death. 


End file.
